Old And New
by chaleur
Summary: Things that change and things that don't.


Day Five - Angel Sanctuary  
Michael x Raphael  
  
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Old And New  
by Alexandra Lucas  
kohlcrimson@hotmail.com  
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He hadn't thought that Raphael would still be able to walk, but he  
was apparently stronger than he looked, so they both made their way to   
the makeshift hospital under their own power, Raphael staggering a   
little and Michael's unrestrained expenditure of power beginning to   
take its toll. He hadn't thought it might hurt this much, or make him   
feel quite this tired, but then, he hadn't thought about living through   
it either. It wasn't so much he meant to die as that he wanted to end.   
Everything.  
  
He is leaving ashy footprints where they walk, fine grey dust on  
the cracked and baked-looking ground. There are splotches that may  
or may not have been blood on what was left of the walls, but   
everywhere his eye turns, it is dust dry, heat still rising off the  
ground in waves that distort the view, water having long since   
evaporated. His boots crunch over the ground, grinding the rest of  
what must be the remnants of the bones of the soldiers who had not  
managed to get away from him in time.  
  
No one, looking at this, would have guessed that Heaven had won.   
  
Not far from where Michael had been, they encounter the first thing  
recognizable as a corpse. It is charred and blackened, hands stretched  
out as if trying to get away, and small black flakes rise from it,  
blown by the wind that has started up, hot air rising, the heat at   
their backs starting to dissipate into the cooler areas.  
  
Raphael takes a drag on the cigarette that he insisted Michael should  
light for him - taken from the inside of his jacket and so only a   
little burnt - and blows a thin stream of smoke into the air.   
  
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The soldiers, those who are still awake simply because they can't quite  
bring themselves to close their eyes and feel safe, look up dully as  
they approach, then struggle to their feet, out of respect or maybe   
just ingrained habit. They waver, staring at Michael, not sure whether  
to come forward to congratulate the hero or to back away into automatic  
self-preservation. Raphael did not even pause to look at them as they  
moved into the half-rubble, half-tent mess of the hospital. Michael's  
eye flicker over them for half a second before he too, disappeared, and  
the soldiers, relieved of the choice, sat down again, too numb to move,  
to think, and no one came to drag them away and force them to rest.  
  
Raphael pulls a ragged flap of curtain over the opening of the 'room'   
for privacy, the scant bit of it that may be had. They can still be  
heard, should anyone care to listen; they are closed in by just what  
had once been a wall, and more folds of tent.   
  
His coat comes off in ragged pieces as Raphael pulls it off,   
disintegrating as it goes. Some fine hair follows with it, clinging to  
the shoulder. There is a crinkle of shirt and pants, and Raphael kicks  
off what is left of his boots, melted rubber and cracked leather.  
  
He actually comes to Michael first, who is curled up in the corner,  
tucked against the wall more for support and the knowledge that it is  
there than for comfort. He touches Michael with charred, blackened   
hands, clinically, hands along his side and on his hands and legs,  
leaving marks as he goes. Michael slaps his hands away, snarls at  
him to get his face healed, did it /look/ as though he was hurt?  
  
The inside of his head hurts as he watches Raphael heal himself,  
tender and raw and not quite ready to handle more than one thought  
at a time, and slowly, even then. Raphael brushes away the old skin,  
peeling the transparent layer off with a pair of sharp metal tweezers  
and revealing pink, raw skin beneath. He probably held himself safe for  
long enough to get to him by forcing the wind away from him - fire did  
not burn in the absence of air, not even Michael's unless he is  
concentrating. The air in the tiny room stirs, impossibly, and Michael  
watches this, the miracle of healing, as Raphael is covered with new,  
pink patches of skin, over his arms, his neck and face. New skin to  
replace the old, but Raphael looks exactly the same as he always did,  
simply a little flushed here and there where the blood flowed closer  
to the surface.   
  
Michael's power only destroyed, burned things away, made space for new   
things. But the fire did not touch him.   
  
Raphael pulls him out of the corner and over to the bed, the pile of  
rugs that he didn't sleep in, more often than not. /Sleep/, he says,  
and throws a blanket over them both.   
  
I'm here. I won't leave.   
  
Outside, there is a new dawn for a day like any other.  
  
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End file.
